


untitled Pete/Gerard sexting ficlet

by jedusaur



Category: Bandom
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Phone Sex, Sexting, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur/pseuds/jedusaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete blinks. That last shot should be hitting his bloodstream right about now, he thinks. He's grateful for it, because he's pretty sure he should be stopping this conversation, and it would suck to be cockblocked by his own sobriety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled Pete/Gerard sexting ficlet

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/Text-Replies-1674.html) on [the TFLN meme](http://hermette.livejournal.com/316678.html).

Pete is slammed like a Spice Girl. He has slammed his body down and wound it all around, and also filled it to the brim with whiskey and hash, and he is the kind of fucked-up that calls for a mass text to his entire phonebook about how very fucked-up he is.

He flops on something--either an amp or a wine fridge, he's not quite sure--and tries to find his phone. It's not in his underwear. He double-checks just to be sure, then tries his shoe before remembering that he has pockets. It's in one of them, hidden under a handful of condoms and a ski cap. The ski cap does not belong to him, nor does it look at all familiar. He has absolutely no idea where it came from. He puts it on his foot, which has gotten cold since he took his shoe off to look for his phone. Which he has now found. Victory.

It won't let him do anything. There's some kind of complicated keypad thing happening on the screen that Pete is just not up to handling right now. He tries shaking it like an Etch-a-Sketch, hoping that will wipe away the keypad. It doesn't work. He stares at the screen for another minute, watching it go blurry, until he finally remembers his passcode and types it in. He feels like a super-hacker, like Ferris Bueller in _War Games._

Is that right? He's pretty sure that kid was Ferris. Whatever. He has technological _skills_ , is the point.

His skills do not extend to remembering how to actually use the phone he now has access to. He prods the screen at random for a while, until he ends up scaring the shit out of himself by accidentally getting into the ringtone settings and making his phone howl at him like a coyote. Eventually he manages to bring up the texting app, which is something.

The top name on the message list is "Wayward Son." Pete stares at this until it hits him. _Way_ ward. Mikey _Way_. Holy crap, that's fucking hilarious. Whoever came up with that shit deserves a Nobel prize for punning. He suspects it may be himself.

He can't remember how to send a mass text, so he selects "Wayward Son" and types in, _dude. I'm so drunk._ He sends it, then immediately types _I can't wait to have my cock in your ass_ and sends that one too. He brings up the keyboard again to expand on the sentiment. He's barely started when his phone buzzes. Pete ignores it, focusing on spelling "spasms" correctly. The SMS part looks suspicious. He doesn't think it's right. While he's deliberating, another text comes in. Pete gives up on spelling and sends that one too, then looks at what Mikey is saying.

 _pete, this is mikey's brother_  
pete, this is still mikey's brother  
o.o really?

Pete blinks. That last shot should be hitting his bloodstream right about now, he thinks. He's grateful for it, because he's pretty sure he should be stopping this conversation, and it would suck to be cockblocked by his own sobriety.

Fortunately for his cock, he's _really_ fucked-up. Fucked-up enough to type _wanna grab you by the hair and watch the dye catch me red-handed._ There's no chance of anyone thinking he's trying to talk to Mikey now.

There's no reply for a long time, almost long enough for Pete to fall asleep draped over the amp/wine fridge/possibly an actual rock, it is that fucking uncomfortable. But eventually, the phone buzzes again.

_it's been a few washes, wouldn't rub off._

Gerard isn't responding to the dirty talk, but he's not discouraging it, either. Emboldened, Pete decides to stop being shy. _wanna fuck you til you come then keep fucking you til you don't know whether you're begging me to stop or keep going,_ he sends. That's kind of getting his cock interested, although there's no way in hell he's coming right now. He doesn't think he can even move his hand down far enough to touch his dick, much less muster the coordination to follow through.

The phone buzzes. _i've never begged anyone to stop fucking me._

Still not as enthusiastic as it could be, but Pete can see acquiescence in the words. _ever begged anyone to start?_ , he tries.

 _oh yeah. i'm pretty shameless._ Then, before Pete can decide how to proceed: _please i want it_ with no punctuation, like maybe he's conserving typing energy. Like maybe he's only using one hand.

 _fuck yes_ , types Pete, _bet you like it rough. bet you could take it with no stretching._

_i think i could. id try. want you in me fingers dont count._

Either Pete wasn't as cross-faded as he thought he was or his head is clearing up from sheer horniness, because there is a definite erection in his pants and his faith in his ability to deal with it is increasing by the moment. _fucking you now god you're tight,_ he sends, and reaches into his pants to rub at himself.

 _harder,_ says Gerard.

 _hard as i think your ass can take it_ , answers Pete.

_harder. i can take it._

Pete jerks himself faster, letting the images cross his mind: Gerard sprawled out, legs splayed, demanding more. Fuck, it's hot. He hasn't spent much time thinking about this, about Gerard, but right now it's all he wants. _yes sir, harder sir_ , he sends.

 _gonne com_ , says the next message, like Gerard is actually trying to type through his orgasm, which, also: hot. Pete pictures Gerard with one hand on his phone and the other on his cock, staring at this same conversation, thinking these same thoughts, and he manages to come too. It's dribbly and pathetic, and he can barely feel it apart from the muscle contractions, but it definitely happens.

He doesn't text Gerard back. Instead, he closes out the conversation and flicks through his address book until he finds the actual Mikey. _sry, think i just accidentally sexted yr brother_ , he says. He knows they talk, and he'd really rather Mikey hear this from him.

Mikey responds in about ten seconds: _ffs. not again. we dont even LOOK alike, ppl._

Pete snorts out a laugh and lets his head loll back on the possibly-a-wine-fridge-but-almost-definitely-a-rock. His phone drops from his hand onto the carpet with a mild thump.

Pete lets it go. He'll find it in the morning.


End file.
